


Last Kiss

by LadyKenz347



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Person, Hermione POV, Memory Loss, Minor Romione, Secret Relationship, Tragedy, dementor kiss, dramione - Freeform, just sadness, no open ending, seriously, unHEA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2021-01-01 21:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21150194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKenz347/pseuds/LadyKenz347
Summary: Hermione knows that she's missing something. A part of her that's gone that feels important.It's not til it's too late that she realizes what that is.





	Last Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the Frumpologist and mods for putting on this super sad fest lol 
> 
> Alpha and Beta love to MCal and Ravenslight. 
> 
> If we have previously spoken about my HEA's involving Dramione, you will know I have said that if Dramione is involved you can guarantee a HEA. Well, I retract this statement for this piece and this piece alone. 
> 
> No happy times ahead, friends but if you're willing to try, I do hope you'll enjoy it! You can always find me on tumblr under the same penname, if you'd be so inclined :)
> 
> Prompt: He thought the worst that he'd suffer would be to watch her die.

“What brings you in, Miss Granger?”

My mouth falls open, ready to say the most preposterous thing on the planet, but my mind fails me. It’s a ridiculous thing to even speak into existence, and this healer already thinks I’m fucking crazy—do I need to give her more ammunition? 

But the memories—_ no, _dreams—the dreams won’t stop, and I can’t survive on any less sleep then I’m getting. 

“You can be honest here, Hermione.” 

She’s nice enough, this Healer Windsor; she doesn’t seem all that intrusive and lets me lead the conversation without steering me into topics that are still too painful. But on whatever topic I choose to discuss, she demands the truth. The witch might very well be a Legilimens the way she can see through my carefully crafted lies. 

It’s not that I want to lie; I just don’t know how to explain the truth. 

“I’m having very vivid dreams,” I allow tersely. In almost every way, I am the picture of poise: calm, collected, in control. My back is straight, and my clothes are immaculately pressed, but my jaw is tight, and good Godric, if I could just get my right foot to stop tapping so incessantly—it’s an awful tell. 

“That’s common for those who suffer from PTSD.” The sound of her quill scratching against the parchment grates my nerves, but not as much as her being so sure I suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Which I do not, might I add. “Are you reliving specific times during the war?” 

Her hazel eyes peek up at me, her hand frozen an inch over her notes, ready to reduce me down to six inches of parchment. 

“That’s just it—” I swallow, the words burning their way down my throat. “It’s nothing like that. They’re from before the war, while I was still at Hogwarts.” 

Healer Windsor pulls a face as she jots this down, quickly canting her head side to side. “That’s not unheard of either. While many sufferers of PTSD do have what we call replicative nightmares, others cope by viewing things symbolically or indirectly.”

I want to tell her they don’t feel like dreams, that they feel like fragments of me I’ve been missing and I don’t know how to find them now. Like someone took them and scattered them in the wind and a few just keep floating by, giving me glimpses into this person I used to be. 

But I don’t. 

“They’re just... normal things. A lot to do with a boy that I had very few pleasant interactions with.” My lips purse as I remember last night’s dream and the way Malfoy had me pinned in an alcove on the third corridor. And at first I thought I was pushing, but as I sank deeper into the dream, I realized I was pulling. That I wanted him, and when his hands slid up my skirt—

“Hermoine?”

I blink, bringing my attention back to her. “Sorry? What was the question?”

“Who is it? The boy in your dreams.” Her eyes are tight on mine, looking for my tells, trying to find the crack in my omission. 

“Does it matter?”

Her lips pull down, and she shrugs. “It might.”

Gnawing on the flesh of my lip, I consider just saying it. The woman has taken an oath to keep our sessions private, after all; so what if she knows? 

But telling her feels like an intrusion, like I’ll be betraying him. _ It’s not real, _ I remind myself and tilt my jaw proudly. 

“Draco Malfoy.” But my voice shakes when I say it, and now my finger is tapping against my thigh. I can’t escape the inky, foreboding twist in my belly as I try to calm my breath. _ This is why she thinks I have PTSD _, I tell myself. I’m always falling apart. 

“He’s been in the papers recently—have you noticed?” Healer Windsor leans over to her side table and grabs a folded copy of the _Evening_ _Prophet. _

Of course, I’ve seen it. The entire Wizarding World had been following the trials of the Death Eaters following the war. 

“He’s set to receive the Kiss tomorrow, both him and his father.” She tosses the paper on the table in front of us, and against my volition, my gaze floats down to his mugshot plastered on the cover. He still looks like him in the picture, like the boy from school. But that was nearly three years ago now; who knows what condition Azkaban prison has left Draco Malfoy in. 

“So I’ve heard,” I mumble, swallowing the unwelcome knot of emotion in my throat. 

“Does it bother you?” Windsor presses, and I shuffle in my seat, uncomfortable under the weight of her stare. 

“No.” _ Liar. _“Why would it?”

“_ Hermione _…”

My eyes clench shut, and my fingers come up to massage at my temple. The memory of a dream floods my mind; I’m being wrapped in his arms on a transfigured sofa, and I don’t know what _ isn’t _ a lie anymore. 

“Maybe a little. I went to school with him for six years, after all. He’s dying.” I shrug, my eyes flitting about the room. “It’s sad.”

“Sad? That’s an interesting word to associate with Draco Malfoy, considering the effect he’s had on your trauma.” 

_ Trauma. _ I hate that fucking word. It makes me a victim when I’d rather be a survivor; my teeth grit together as I bite back a nasty retort. 

“Had the war ended differently, you and Mister Malfoy would be in opposite positions. Survivor’s guilt is not uncommon, Hermione.” 

I groan, burying my face in my hands because I’m so bloody sick of hearing psychological jargon that means absolutely nothing to me. 

“You’re not listening to me!” I snap, and the tone sounds foreign even to my ears. With a steadying breath, I try to quell the rioting between my ears and the thrumming of my heart. “I feel like I’m remembering something that’s impossible to remember. Things that didn’t happen keep coming back to me, and I don’t know if I need to remember or I need to forget—but I _ do _ know I need them to stop. I’m not sleeping, not more than a handful of minutes every night, and it’s leaking over into every other area of my life.” 

Something about my confession catches her attention, and she sets her parchment to the side and leans forward to rest her elbow on her knee as she studies me. “Do you have any gaping holes during your time at Hogwarts? Anything that sticks out as odd?”

I try to think back… nothing. Nothing about Draco Malfoy other than a handful of altercations and punching his pointy nose. “No.” 

“The trials, sentencing, and penalties of known Death Eaters are for the public you know. You could attend tomorrow.” 

I snort, eyes rolling back in my head, and I notice our time is almost done for this week. “Right. What a brilliant idea; I’ll head down to Azkaban and watch as Draco Malfoy’s soul is ripped from his body. I’m sure that would just do wonders for my mental health,” I quip with a biting edge.

“Your mind may be warping your memories of Mister Malfoy out of guilt. Perhaps seeing him as he is will absolve you of some of that and remind you that the Wizengamot tried him and found him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Maybe then your mind can make the proper connections and you can move on.” 

_ Move on. _ What an utterly ridiculous thought.

xXx

The prison is bloody freezing; the air licks icily at my skin, and it’s taking every bloody ounce of Gryffindor tenacity not to turn and run for the door. 

But, something draws me here—to him. 

Sleep never found me last night; I fought restlessly against the sheets as Ron snored, and when I could stand it no longer, I left. 

There aren’t many people here, despite it being open to the public. After three years of trials and executions, I guess the Wizarding community is done caring. 

A shiver works its way down my spine, and I feel the presence of a Dementor nearby; dread coils in my stomach. Beyond the glass door is nothing more than a chair.

The clock clicks towards death with each passing minute, and when the door opens, I barely recognize the boy being dragged to his seat. 

He’s far too thin, and he never had much excess weight to begin with. His hair is overgrown, his skin caked with dirt, and his clothes tattered and torn. But below all that, I can still see the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the lips that always had me mesmerized when they’d curl up in a taunting smirk. 

He was handsome once. 

I gulp as he’s seated, his shoulders slumped, his body ruined. I feel an ache for him, something that I can’t name or describe, and as my breath comes quicker, I realize I need to stop all of this. 

Something is horribly, horribly wrong. 

The door opens to the left, and my gaze locks on the looming black robes of the Dementor chosen for today’s execution. 

I can’t fucking _ breathe _.

My throat is tight, and tears streak over my cheeks, though I can’t figure out why. 

Malfoy’s not yet lifted his head, doesn’t know there’s a familiar face here in his last moments, and it breaks me. I rush to the glass as the Dementor circles him. 

An angry scream rips through me, and I don’t give a shite about the few other people who have deemed this execution worthy of their time; my fist pounds on the glass until Malfoy’s gaze lifts to mine. 

Disbelief is plain on his features, his brows inching up as he stares at me and lets out a hollow laugh. Tears well in the corner of his red-rimmed eyes and spill over, streaking over his dirty cheeks. 

“Granger.” He mouths, and it lances through me. A harsh gasp tears through my lungs as my fingers splay out over the glass, reaching for him.

Wisps of his soul are dragged slowly from his mouth, but his eyes stay on me. They are tinged with pain I can’t fathom, and it isn’t until they are unseeing and rolling back in his head that I breathe again. 

Surprising sobs shatter me further, and I drop my palm from the glass as he slumps to the floor. He’s dead; at least in all the ways that really matter. 

Draco Malfoy is dead. 

xXx

“Hermione? That you?” Ron’s voice calls from the kitchen, and I barely have it in me to grunt a response. “Where’d you run off to so early?”

I’m silent as I climb the stairs, carrying a grief I can’t make sense of. 

“Hermione?” Ron’s calling up to me, concern evident in the low timbre of his voice. “You okay?”

I pause near the top and look back at him with a sad smile. “Just tired. I need to rest.” 

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, quite,” I lie and turn back for our room. 

“An owl arrived! From Azkaban of all places. I put it on your nightstand, thought it might be important,” Ron says, having already turned to head back to the kitchen. 

Once in our room, I drop my bag and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing in particular as I try to wrangle the mess of emotions warring inside me. My head rolls towards the end table and the surprisingly neat script on the front of a dirty envelope. 

Sating my curiosity, I lift the envelope from its place and remove the letter tucked inside. 

  


_ Granger— _

_ I bet you’re pretty surprised to get this letter from me of all people. I fought with myself for a long time before sending it. I wanted to big enough to just let you live on happily without me but, love, they’re coming for me at dawn, and I can’t believe that I’ve fucked this all up so badly. _

_ You’ll not remember me; not in the way I wish you would. You won’t remember how much we meant to each other or how desperately we clung to hope until the final moments. Looking back, I still stand by my reasons. I would have done anything to protect you from them—protect you from me. In my mind, nothing was worth seeing your death. _

_ But now that I’m here, at the end of the line, out of chances and hope, I find myself realizing how bloody sad it is that our memories will die with me. They are all that has kept me warm in the endless chill of this gods-forsaken prison. They are my light in the unending darkness. If I could go back, I would love you longer. I would hold you closer and not have fought my feelings for so bloody long. _

_ Do you think, even if no one remembers, that our love still exists? I hope it does. _

_ Foolishly, I thought perhaps one day I could get us back in some way. I thought I’d make it to the other side and fight hard enough to get out. I imagined that you’d love me again, even though I still find it impossible you did it once. _

_ We were young and stupid to think our love was bigger than all this, but I wouldn’t change a second of it. You’ll go on, and that’s all that ever really mattered to me. You’ll live and do great things, have babies, and change the world. The world is better without me… _

You_ are better without me. _

_ They say that the Dementors take your happy memories first. Merlin, I hope that’s not true. You are all my happy memories, and if I can hold onto them until the end, then I’ll have you with me the rest of my life. What more could I ask for at this point? _

_ Vainly, I hope I’ll see you there. Not that I want you to see me like this, filthy and emaciated, rotting from the inside out, but if I could see your face one more time... if it could chase me from this world to the next... _

_ Well, that doesn’t matter. You’ll hopefully be far from this hellhole come dawn. Instead, I’ll close my eyes and think of you until our memories have faded into stardust. _

_ Of all the things I have loved in this short life, you were the only one that made me want to be better. _

_ I’m so sorry I failed you. _

_ Know that I loved you until the very end. _

_ D.M. _

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Until next time, friends. 
> 
> LK


End file.
